Arrest the Cycle of Eternal Return
by LegendsofKorrigans
Summary: Arisen-turned-Dragon Jon trolls the Seneschal by ignoring the obvious choice for the Arisen, instead choosing someone with no business being put in the hero's role.
1. Jon

**A/N: No promises…**

 **Jon...**

 **Jon...**

 **Jon...!**

The Dragon awoke in midair, its oddly dark brown eyes mirroring the crisp blue sky he was currently falling from. His vision blurred, unblurred and was swept across by panicked harpies, seeking to escape this falling mountain of a creature. With a confused, indignant roar, the Dragon unfurled his wings, lashed out his immense tail – reducing several helpless harpies to paste in the process – and _roared_ , rattling the sky with the power in his lungs. Beating those massive wings, the Dragon hovered in the sky, blasting everything away from him as he gazed up at the portal that had so ceremoniously spat him out above the Cassardi sea.

"Don't think I don't know you're there, Seneschal," he growled louder than the pounding wind cast by his wings.

"How uncouth," came the answer from above, light, mocking and brimming with power. "To think eloquent, wise, philosophical Grigori would be succeeded by one with such crass command of language."

Following those words, the Seneschal himself, blazing with light and reeking of smugness, dove out of the portal and slammed to a halt just in front of the Dragon's enormous jaws, which could easily have swallowed him in one bite. In theory, anyway. Irritated as he was, the Dragon knew better than to pick a fight with the Seneschal – one who had proven himself to be capable of slaying dragons, and who watched over the land of Gransys as an unknown god.

The Seneschal looked over the colossal red Dragon, nodding slightly as his eyes travelled up the Dragon's body and pausing briefly at his dark brown eyes. "Everything seems to be in order - you look quite draconic to me. Can you tell me your name?"

"I…" the rumble in the Dragon's chest died for a moment as he delved deep into his memories, resurfacing with a face looking up at him from water at the edge of the long pier in Cassardis. With the return of the Dragon's identity came words:

"My name is Jon Ashfell," came the voice of Jon Ashfell, albeit a hundred times deeper than he remembered it. The Seneschal nodded.

"So it is. What else?"

"I was… in Cassardis. Why was I in Cassardis?"

The Seneschal peered at him with narrowed eyes. "A more appropriate question would be, why can you recall Cassardis, but naught else?"

Jon the Dragon returned the god-thing's glare tenfold. "Or better yet: why haven't I eaten you? You're puny compared to me."

Immediately the Seneschal called Jon's bluff, and raised both hands warningly, that smug aura never leaving him. "Go on, try. I won't kill you, as I need you to make more Arisen, but I am more than capable of giving you a beating you won't soon forget."

They hung there in the sky, Dragon and dragon-slaying god, until finally Jon's snout dropped in reluctant deference. The Seneschal nodded in smug satisfaction, and gestured towards the distant island duchy of Gransys.

"You know what to do."

Not deigning to gratify the god with an answer, Jon gave one mighty flap and blasted landwards, his heart already seeking another to beat in sync with. Even from such a distance, a resonance was unmistakeable.

"Arisen…" he growled, the word instinctively rolling off his ridged tongue. And he then remembered something else, looking into the water: a bloody shirt torn nearly in half, and a long, faintly glowing scar running across his chest. These were the signs of the Arisen. Seeing them in himself meant…

Jon set his great jaw and flew onwards.

It wasn't long before the great Dragon was casting the shadow of his wings over the small fishing village of Cassardis. Predictably, panic ensued, the unprepared villagers tripping over themselves in their bid to escape. His long tail fiercely lashing the beach, sending sand and rocks cascading into the village, Jon scanned the crowd for one who would not turn tail and run. Soon, the figure became clear: a man with distinctive long red hair, a muscular physique, and the eyes of a warrior. His heart, Jon knew, was the one he had been feeling.

The Dragon landed on the beach in a burst of sand and water, letting loose a harmless but frightening column of flame. The red-haired man, picking up a discarded arming sword, sped directly for him, heedless of his own safety, seeking only to protect those around him. The Dragon zeroed in on this man, waiting until he came just within reach, and then lashed out with one of his forepaws.

Fast as the Dragon was, the man was faster. Surprising Jon with his speed, he dashed under the dragon's paw, slicing at the passing limb as he did so. Even though the blade has slid ineffectually over his scales, it had been an impressive blow nonetheless.

 _This man,_ Jon thought as he looked down at his relatively diminutive adversary, _would make a fearsome foe, were he properly equipped and experienced._ With this in mind, he struck again, lunging his neck forward and biting. His jaws closed with a sharp _snap_ , but met with nothing but air. The man had taken hold of one of Jon's horns, and was trying to angle his sword to ram it into the Dragon's eye. With a roar, Jon shook his head, sending the man tumbling back. Still he rose to his feet and met the dragon again, perhaps even with greater vigour. The red-haired man, darting between Jon's legs, leapt fearlessly onto the dragon's left foreleg. Seizing one of the ridges on his leg, the man pushed off, aiming his sword straight at the vulnerable heart in the center of Jon's massive chest.

With a screech, the Dragon reared up and smacked the lunging would-be hero away, at last scoring a direct hit. The man was sent flying brutally across the sand, bouncing and rolling before finally skidding to a stop and lying motionless in the low tide.

At last knowing his foe to be beaten, Jon crept almost leisurely across the beach, the entire world dulling around him as his entire being focused tighter and tighter on this man, who had dared defy him – whose sword was still embedded in his paw. Examining it coolly, he let the sword fall to the sand as if it were no more than a needle (which to him, it was), and stood towering over his fallen opponent. As the man snarled in defiance, trying in vain to rise in spite of his obviously broken arm and ribs. The Dragon gazed down at this fighter – one who, he had no doubt, if gifted the power of the Arisen, could and would bring about his end.

A moment later, he had made his decision. Lifting one razor-sharp claw, the Dragon brought it down to hover just over the prone man. As the defeated villager snarled his defiance, The Dragon removed his claw and nodded.

"Farewell."

A questioning grunt was all the brave man could offer as the Dragon took flight, slamming the beach with the gale-force winds from his wings, and soared North, leaving the village of Cassardis behind altogether.

 _How do you like that, Seneschal?_ He thought triumphantly as the warm South wind carried him higher, until he was only a speck in the sky. Flapping his wings to gain speed, the Dragon made for a place he vaguely remembered – a forest of dead trees, with a secluded abbey hidden in its heart. _The Wilted Forest_ , that was it. Therein lay his quarry.

For, faraway, Jon the Dragon had sensed another heart – one nothing like his at all. In fact, it was a heart that defied the very nature of the Arisen.

That was the heart he wanted.


	2. Nickolaus

**A/N: Reviews are always welcome. Although this is a story first, it's also a means to improve my writing.**

* * *

As he raised his right hand, stone gripped casually and eyes narrowed, Nickolaus drew his left under his leather cape to ward off the cold. Gransys was usually pleasantly warm, but the mist creeping through the forest that morning lent an uncommon bite to the air.

"D'you think it'll rain?" he asked, eyes never leaving the symbols in the ground. Herk, who was intent on taking his turn, growled and nudged him impatiently.

"Stupid human," said Herk, his voice shrill and screechy even when calm. "Take turn. Herk want!"

"Herk get, just wait a minute." Nickolaus cast the little stone onto the seventh tile, and immediately began hopping along his expertly scratched hopscotch court, his footwork immaculate as he made his way to the stone and claimed it, shooting Herk a smug grin. The restless goblin, adjusting the wooden bowl he used as a helmet in anticipation, practically snatched the stone and, with deceptive precision, cast the stone into the court. Herk landed a six, and proceeded to skip confidently over the numbers in the dirt until his little clawed foot broke the edge of the five. The goblin shrieked furiously, but knew better than to argue – at that moment, all his revelmates had momentarily paused to watch his and Nickolaus's game, and he was certain that not a one of them would take his side should a dispute arise. Snitching, backstabbing numskulls. As Nickolaus whooped and hopped the remaining three steps to victory, Herk immediately started plotting how to exact petty vengeance, cackling quietly to himself.

Conspicuous as this was, Nick took note and smirked. Try as they might, none of these goblins could pull one over him – Herk was the only one who hadn't accepted it. Of course, outsmarting goblins was no big feat, but he couldn't help but feel a little proud of himself. Even though they were still uncouth and almost savage, he had put in effort and won both their trust and grudging respect. Thanks to him, they were alive.

The day began to die, and, after several more rounds of hopscotch against an increasingly agitated Herk, Nick bid the goblins goodbye and set off along the path through the rocks to the Abbey. For all its bleakness, he genuinely liked the Wilted Forest, but recognized the danger of hanging around after dark. Ogres came out from their rocky hideaways to hunt, and the living dead emerged from the earth. Though they were slower, they unsettled Nick with their almost conscious moans. The mere thought of it served to speed his progress through the woods, and soon the Abbey was within sight.

There at the gate, Sister Janne stood, calling out into the woods for Nick to come back, that it was dangerous and he knew better. Slipping between the rocks and pulling himself up onto the Abbey wall, Nickolaus grinned. She would chide him for frightening her, of course, and he would deserve it, but he really couldn't help himself. He crawled, snakelike, over the top of the wall until he was directly above her.

"Nick! Come home!"

"You called?"

Janne gasped and jumped at the sudden voice behind her. She looked about to see Nickolaus sitting cross-legged on the wall, looking smugly down at her. Despite knowing he would never harm her, his eyes cast in the torchlight looked quite eerie, almost glowing in the sharp contrast. As if feeling the odd effect his position was having, Nick instantly rolled backwards off the wall, landing on his feet with practiced ease.

Janne sighed. "I know you're good at that, but I can't help but worry you'll hurt yourself. Don't make me worry, Nick…"

"I'm sorry, Janne. It's all just so much fun!"

The nun bit her lip. "And… those goblins in the woods. You say they're your friends, that they won't hurt you, but they're-"

"They look up to me, you know."

Janne looked away, her eyes downcast while Nick's eyes hardened. "I saved their lives. They're not humans, but they can feel gratitude. They can feel. The Maker demands we reach out and embrace all life, doesn't He?"

"In His infinite grace, He does, but I can't help but feel worry gnawing at me. And when you don't appear for dinner, Nick, a knot grows in my stomach. Promise me… promise me you'll come home to eat tomorrow? We hardly even see you anymore. You're always out in the woods with those…"

"Monsters?"

Janne winced. "Friends of yours."

Nick immediately felt guilty, and, with an apologetic bow, turned to walk to the Abbey storehouse. Even though she was unfond of his goblin friends, she really did want the best for him, and it hurt him to make her uncomfortable. He could picture her reaching out after him, then giving up and heading into the Abbey. In spite of the nuns' care, the only fun he ever had came from his little rebellions, the biggest of which he had committed a month ago. In his eyes, slaying that chimera had been a blessing on the entire forest. Despite the danger many of the forest's residents posed, chimeras were unnatural creatures that had no place in any ecosystem. For this reason, they wandered, killing and eating everything they could find before moving on.

And so Nick had taken the initiative, spending days setting traps, crafting poisons and throwblasts, and studying the grounds the monster prowled. His only intention had been to slay the chimera; earning the goblins' trust had been an unexpected side effect, but it had given him a new perspective on the brutish little humanoids. They were little and generally cowardly, but this cowardice came from a powerful need for survival that was inspirational in a way. Even while the entire world trampled them underfoot and loathed them, the goblins stoutly lived on and did whatever they could to thrive.

And then Herk had learned to play hopscotch.

Lying back on his cot in the storehouse, he still thought back in wonder to the moment when he had been approached by the bowl-helmed goblin. His initial wariness was dispelled and replaced with intrigue when Herk had shown him a drawing of something he had seen in the earth outside Cassardis. Nick, of course, had immediately recognized it as a hopscotch court, and so had begun a strange bond with the inquisitive goblin.

This all happened one month ago.

The sisters at the Abbey were more worried than ever. This time, they agreed, the boy had gone too far. They told him he was to stay in the abbey and burdened him with chores. He did them all, of course, and still managed to squeeze in two hours in the woods each day. They found him once at sundown perched on the roof of the Abbey, idly fixing a bright stone to the tip of a stick. That stick was in a hideaway in the forest, along with his little lab.

Tomorrow, he thought, he would check his hideaway, and make sure that sly Herk hadn't stolen anything.


End file.
